


i have to search my body for scars

by dykeula



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A whole lot of touching and emotions, Caretaking, Gen, Gentleness, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Scars, Season 2, gentleness during the end times i guess, wheres my 'martin helps jon heal from prentiss/perry' fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:48:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23045803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykeula/pseuds/dykeula
Summary: In 2017, a few months after MAG 92, Jon runs into a problem at work he thought he'd dealt with. Martin knows just what to do. Which just so happens to include holding hands.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 29
Kudos: 385





	i have to search my body for scars

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from this:
> 
> “I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you've taken something out of me and I have to search my body for scars.”
> 
> ― Richard Siken, Crush
> 
> the first half has a TW for discussion of bullying, as well as a short scene super shortly talking about abuse.
> 
> Character: suffers from severe scarring  
> My scarred ass: Finally. My time to Shine.

When Jon was 12, he once accidentally crushed his hand.

‘Accidentally’ is an understatement. ‘Crushed’ is also a stretch. During the times he’s particularly honest with himself (which doesn’t happen often, less and less), he does realize that an accident is only an accident if there’d been no ill intent beforehand. Accidents, they… just sort of happen accidentally.

Having your book ripped out of your grip by a pair of overgrown playground bullies and then smashed on the dirty floor certainly wasn’t an accident and neither had been the malicious “Watch it, nerd” thrown his way. He should have realized, should have noticed the warning signs. There was never just one chapter to his stories, even now. But well, the book had been new. Or as new as a used red cross novella could be. And while teenager Jon frequently destroyed books, much to his grandmother’s dismay and to his overactive mind’s delight, the act of tearing off pages was something sacred. Something to be done by him and only him in his darkly lit room. Strewing the half-torn pages and words about like rubble. Point was, he wasn’t so much a nerd that he valued a book’s _life_. Words could be more than words, but they so seldom were. More often than not they were just fodder for his greedy sleep-deprived brain. But that didn’t mean he liked _others_ destroying his property. So he went to pick it up. Foolishly.

Because, well. His current bullies liked to use a tactic called the double whammy on him. Smaller hit to keep him on his toes, to confuse him before he could see the next one coming and could sufficiently prepare. And like an idiot, like a child, he always, always felt for it. So he crouched down hand outstretched just far enough to reach the worn binding, but that was enough.

The target had been his palm but because Jon’s reflexes had kicked in surprisingly well, the leather boot had just about managed to hit his fingers, minus the thumb. Which was worse somehow.

There was rubble lodged in the shoe, Jon could feel those miniature rocks rubbing on his skin painfully. There was also dirt piercing the inside of his palm. His hand felt like the meat part of a particularly crunchy burger.

His bully said something then, Jon for the life of him couldn’t hear him underneath all those crunching rocks and sudden, excruciating pain. Presumably something faux intellectual, a catchphrase to hammer the point home. Or maybe he just laughed. Who could tell? His chosen tormentor of the day took that moment to up the antics and deliberately _twisted_ his foot. Young Jon back then was pretty sure his fingers would never recover from that, it felt like they were being _torn up_ apart at the digits. A little dramatic, yes, but he always tended to reach towards melodrama as his favorite coping method. And it _did_ hurt like hell, especially when the guy did it again. And again.

So he screamed.

Help came soon enough of course, in the form of a teacher and then some cool ice packs and 20 heavenly minutes in the school’s nursing room where he was consoled like it had been _his_ mistake. Teachers are so wonderfully ignorant sometimes. The entire time he couldn’t keep his legs still.

The bullies had to apologize for the accident, but even while they proclaimed their innocence Jon could see how delighted their eyes were. Like the punishment was just part of the fun.

He tried not to take it personally. Couldn’t help a person’s nature.

* * *

Anyway, silly old him thought that’d be the worst his hand could ever endure. Boy was he wrong. That had been just the beginning it turned out.

When Jude Perry had oh so reassuringly gripped his hand in a handshake only to proceed in burning off every outer layer of skin he had, Jon screamed a whole lot more than he had back then. You see, he hadn’t been conscious when Jane Prentiss’ children had tried eroding him when they’d tried burying into him and making a home out of his flesh. Far too gone by then to consciously feel the pain. It had been all far away. Only sometimes did it hurt, long after the scarring, like a phantom limb. Worm.

But with his hand, well, that was acute pain in a specific place, not just all over. Scorching. He was completely conscious, wide awake. Awake enough to scream his lungs out. Continued to be, even long after Perry had disappeared with a smirk and some vague double meaning. When Georgie dragged him to hospital, almost had to shove him, because “your hand is leaking pus all over my couch, Jon”. She respected his feverish wishes though, and only dragged him there to meet with a nurse she trusted enough to treat third-degree burns and _not_ chat with the wrong people about it. Neither of them asked him about it which he was thankful for. It seemed that Georgie by now had just accepted that chasing mortal danger was something Jon did daily now apparently. (Not like he’d ever even consciously started.) (Disfigurement hadn’t been part of the job description.) (Would he still have signed on if it had been? Most likely.)

For some ungodly reason, just because, getting the hand fixed hurt worse than getting it burned in the first place. Rubbing antiseptic into his palm, where the nerves were so clearly red and raw… wasn’t fun. The frequent bandage change was also embarrassing because of _course,_ he couldn’t do it on his own. Like he hadn’t already been an invalid with his various wormholes preventing him from walking long distances comfortably. He had to use a _cane_ , for God’s sake.

Georgie didn’t seem to mind. “Look at it from that side,” she said the first time, while he’d been crouched down on her fuzzy bathroom rug, the Admiral purring into his tense stomach. The still oozing pus startled him, even now. It didn’t… look like his hand. Like it was rubber instead of flesh. “You could audition for one of those ads they always show on the tube, you know the ones? Telling kids not to play on the stove. That’s a niche market, I bet.”

Jon didn’t laugh, just stared at her like he desperately wished he could flip her off right now, before drowning a couple of ibuprofen and antibiotics with the lukewarm water he’d gotten from the tap. The fact that he almost couldn’t feel Georgie’s fingers when they gingerly brushed his bruised knuckles, well, he blamed that on the meds. He’d be fine. Been through worse.

Jon scarred easily but healed just as quickly.

* * *

Turns out, even his quick healing abilities couldn’t fix _that_.

It hadn’t been that long granted, only a couple months, but still, Jon felt all the while like it… should have been healed over by now. At first, he did his usual routine, favoured his left hand, tried to turn his abysmal left-handed writing into something presentable. Not like a toddler had written it. Buttons were- _are_ a, heh, struggle. So he exclusively wears zip-up jumpers. Sometimes he still opens doors with his – with his hand. With his little souvenir. Those unexpected times always hurt the worst.

The look of it doesn’t help to lift his spirits either, all pink and fleshy, a stark contrast from his usual darker skin. Like someone had tried attaching someone else’s hand onto his wrist. A mix-up. When could he return it?

Now that he’s back in the Institute after Elias… after Elias told them all the truth, it’s become more and more apparent just how much he’s changed over the few months he was a fugitive. His hair is even greyer than before and the scars are so prominent now he’s started to be self-conscious in public. He doesn’t want any more random children asking him why he looks so _weird_ while on his way to work. He never knows what to say.

Turns out that scars drive people to react in various, often wildly overreacting ways. Even the most sheltered individual has their fair share of scar tissue they’d like to hide. Too bad Jon’s is littered all over his body.

He’s pretty sure he’d once triggered a statement giver. Her story had been pretty normal (or whatever _normal_ was in here), run of the mill. The haunting of her home, presumably by her late father. A case he’d chosen specifically to ease himself back into work at the archives. She’d talked in detail about the abuse he would inflict upon her and her mother, one of which had been the repeated use of cigarettes. Using her as his favourite ashtray. The worn belt.

She’d been nervously fidgeting with her sleeves, obviously trying to hide marks, but changed abruptly when she looked down. Her eyes were fixed on a particular point somewhere around his expose clavicle, then drifted down further. Further and further. Until it reached its destination on his hand. Jon felt like he was being read for filth. And he was the archivist here, usually the beholder.

She muttered something under her breath, eyes glassy and unfocused. Jon had to strain his ears to understand her, feared that the tape recorder would fare just as poorly if not more. “Pardon?” he asked.

“Cigarette burns,” she repeated herself, pointing towards his hand as if in explanation. “Stove?”

Jon felt like he was being watched – more than he already was. It felt like every little piece of Jane Prentiss, every trace of Jude Perry, started reawakening and aching all over. He didn’t know what to do, what to say. To this poor woman, who was so clearly trying to sympathize with him. When all his injuries had only ever been earned, at least to some degree. And hers had just been an act of cruelty.

So of course, all that came out of him was a stuttering mess. “N-No, i-i-it’s…” He was struggling for words. _It’s just that worms had tried eating – no, tried possessing me? Or that I got cheeky with a fire god worshipper? Nothing to moan over, I’m all good now._ None of it seemed to fit.

He needn’t have bothered anyway, because said woman (Amy? Had her name been Amy?) just shook her head vehemently and murmured “The body keeps the score, you know? Even if the mind tries to forget. But we never truly forget, do we?”

He just stayed silent. She resumed her statement after that. Thank God.

He’s thought about using gloves before, but Tim’d just imitated various Michael Jackson sounds, right down to the moonwalking, whenever he saw him. Not to mention that the pressure of the warm leather felt… bad. Not burning, not exactly, but like someone laying a gentle finger upon an open wound. Not stabbing or poking around, but just enough pressure to make you nervous. So he’d taken it off.

Sensitivity to touch. Another problem on his list. And now something he’d just discovered ten minutes ago: Chronic dryness. Which apparently hurts. Huh.

He’s at his desk currently, trying and failing to read a statement. To start his tape recorder. Trying and failing, over and over again. Because of his stupid hand. He couldn’t be sure what it was, but his pink skin felt like it’d been stretched tight like he’d just – burned it. He can’t close his hand; every attempt just results in his fingers refusing to go that far. His body is on strike again, plotting against him.

“Statement of… St-st-statement…” His hands are shaking. Both of them now. Shit. What’s he supposed to do now, if he can’t even do his job? Will Elias bludgeon him to death now too? He has to admit, the thought holds some vague sense of amusement.

“Statement…” Every touch on his fingers feels like he’s being rubbed raw. There’s the rustling of paper, as well as soft footsteps behind him. Jon remains too fixed on his traitorous hand to notice, though. “Of… Oh, Jesus _Christ_.”

“We have his statement?”

The sudden interruption startles him so much Jon yelps backward, almost falling out of his chair and landing on the floor. At first, he thinks it’s Tim, all smug and self-righteous, probably still pissed at him. Or Melanie.

But no, it’s something worse. So much worse. It’s Martin – and he looks genuinely concerned. (His hair is growing longer. Jon hadn’t noticed until now.) Jon swallows thickly, caught. As is his usual response, he covers up his nervousness with the next best emotion he has, Annoyance.

“Martin,” he says, drawing it out and enunciating the t. He self-consciously tucks his right hand behind his back, but the movement just irritates his skin further. His palm is _pulsing_ with pain. It’s hard to think, hard to concentrate on anything else. “Do you need something, Martin?”

“Oh,” his co-worker says (it’s just a co-worker, this is a normal situation, calm _down_ ). In the background, he can hear the faint _click_ of the tape recorder turning on. Of course. Wouldn’t miss the drama. _(Now it decides to turn itself on. After I fumbled with it for over half an hour.) (Never mind.)_

“No…” Martin looks just as nervous as Jon feels, his cheeks almost the same reddish-pink of Jon’s hand. “No, I uhh… I guess I don’t. I was just… You know. Wondering. How you were. How you were doing.”

Jon grits his teeth as another flash of pain washes over his body. It’s like he’s caught in a riptide. Everything’s hot. “Fine,” he grits out. _(Liar liar, pants on fire. Or hand.)_ “I’m just fine.” He doesn’t reciprocate the question.

“How was investigating on your own?”

_I interviewed a follower of the lightless flame and got all outer parts of the skin, right down to the hyper dermis, burned off because she wanted to joke around a bit. I had to go see a nurse and get my gauze changed every day, all the while being chased by the police and god knows what else. I found out our boss killed my predecessor. I reconciled and then lost again one of my oldest friends. My life is running down the drain and I’m always tired._

“Good.”

“Good, huh? Yeah, must be. To get out of this place for a while.” Martin’s eyes turn soft, sending off all kinds of warning signals in Jon’s brain. “Listen, I just wanted you to know… Well, I never believed it was you. Not once. Not even when the police came round.”

Some ugly, small part of his conscious thinks ‘ _Why not?’_. “Thanks, Martin,” he says because it’s all he can say really. His throat feels thick. “That means a lot. I suppose.”

Martin’s smile feels contagious, always has, but at the moment every muscle in his body is actively trying to hold in the pain that is still blurring his vision. Trying not to cry out, like he did when he was younger and just wanted someone to put a band-aid on all his worries. He used to cry a lot. A tell-tale sign of an annoying child. So Jon doesn’t even bother with trying to reciprocate, he just does his usual scowl. Usually works.

Something in his expression betrays him though. “Jon,” Martin says, in that special way of his. It either annoys him or makes him feel nervous. Or both. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

Jon sighs, says “I _told_ you-“

“Is it your hand? It’s acting up?” Spot on. Right on the first try. Jon is dumbfounded. Doesn’t know what to say. He’s not used to being read so openly like this.

“… No.”

Martin just looks at him in a perfect ‘are you shitting me?’ manner. “How bad?” Martin asks just as Jon stutters out some excuse about it not being all _that_ bad. It’s healed, after all. It is. He’s healed. It’s just… aftershocks. Jon tells him as much.

Martin doesn’t buy it. Which is how, after a couple of embarrassing minutes of “I’m fine” “No you’re _not_ , look at it” “It’s not that bad” “It’s _reddened_ ” in which Jon thoroughly feels like being scolded by his grandmother, Martin just so decides to storm off in quick, worrying steps. Leaving Jon to look after him like he’d just missed the end of their conversation. He shouldn’t be hurt over Martin being annoyed at his antics – he’s annoyed at himself. Frustrated. Of course, Martin wouldn’t keep up with it, with him. Who would?

Jon just doesn’t expect Martin to come back. With a bowl of what seems to be water, a freshly washed washcloth and … crème? Some kind of lotion in his pocket. Martin looks annoyed, just slightly, but more than that he looks determined. Like he’s slipped right back into his old role. “Alright,” he says, ever the caretaker. “Let’s do this.”

“I don’t understand,” Jon mutters. He doesn’t. Martin just walks towards his desk, careful to not drop on the floor.

In all his confusion he’s forgotten to hide his hand, which is now on full show. In all its ugly glory. Martin now has no choice but to look at, to stare at it. Jon sighs. “I know, it’s disgusting.” It is. Sometimes he can barely stand to look at it. All that flesh. Pink _meat_.

Martin just gives him one of those Looks. Jon never knows what they mean. “No, I didn’t – It’s not-”

“You don’t have to do this, you know. Help.”

“I want to-“

They keep interrupting each other, seemingly without notice. Jon sounds like he’s out of breath. “I know, but-“

“Just shut _up_!” That shuts him up, alright. Jon blinks looks up at Martin who’s now way closer. Still holding that damned bowl. “Shut up for _one second_ and let me do this for you! God!”

Martin’s never told him to shut up before. To be honest, Jon wasn’t sure he had it in him. He doesn’t know what to do, how to proceed. So he remains quiet. Lets Martin set the course, whatever he wants to do. “You said it was healed? When did you meet with-“ He catches himself, just barely. As if the mere name will make Jon quiver in his chair. _(It might.)_ “When did it happen, again?”

Oh, is he supposed to speak now? “A few months ago.”

Martin just nods, looks at it again, then back up at Jon’s face. At the strain there, in between his brows. The wrinkles. Sweat. Jon never pretended to be a beauty, but he must seem positively wrecked right now. “Third-degree burns take a whole lot more than _a few months_ to heal, Jon. Sometimes even years. Just because it’s not currently infected doesn’t mean it’s back to regular health.”

“Hospital dismissed me,” he just has to point out.

Martin rolls his eyes, gives him another of those Looks, amused more than anything this time though. “A hospital would dismiss a dying woman and declare her healthy if it saved them one penny.” He sounds like he’s talking from experience, reminded of his mother maybe? Jon decides to keep his mouth shut this time. “Anyway. You wouldn’t mind and clear your desk a little, would you? Allow me some room to work?” He pointedly looks at the recorder and statement, like it’s annoying him personally.

“Actually, it’s-“ He doesn’t know where he’s going with that sentence. _I was recording?_

Martin just looks at him again, more sternly this time. So Jon just sighs and accepts his fate, gingerly sweeping most of his belongings on the ground with his left hand. That movement alone still hurts, like there’s a string attached to the fingers of his right hand, stretching them. The tape recorder pointedly doesn’t turn itself off. Of course. “Here, satisfied?” He asks, sounding annoyed although he’s not really. He’s just tired.

Martin can tell, apparently, just placing down the bowl. He heaves a couple of folders and dusts off the other chair in the room, the one Jon uses occasionally if he has people over. He doesn’t. None of his live statements are conducted in his office, more often than not he chooses the conference room. For one simple reason and one reason only: He’s messy. Incredibly so. He’s tried again and again, back when he’d just started, to keep somewhat of a tidy appearance of his office. Not anymore, not since… Not since Elias bashed in Jürgen Leitner’s head in this very room and then left the corpse to drip all over his carpet. Not since then. Now? He doesn’t care. Elias can send in a complaint for all he cares.

“Sorry,” Jon mumbles when Martin scoots closer, “for the mess.” (Has he ever apologized for thinking Martin capable of murder before? He doesn’t remember.)

Martin doesn’t reply, presumably to save him the embarrassment. Instead he just slowly, gingerly moves to take Jon’s arm by his forearm. The close contact makes him nervous like he’s either about to be hurt – or not. Either isn’t great at the moment. Martin must notice his panicked look because he stops momentarily. “I told you. I used to do this for my mum.”

Jon isn’t convinced, lets him move forward though. Martin’s fingers barely even touch him, over all those clothes, but his digits are so cold he can feel them. He feels a little stupid, being held like this. Like he’s a child. So he does the only thing he can at the moment: he reflects. “Your mum’s a burn victim? Anyway, I can do this on my own. I’m not a _child_.”

Martin just rolls his eyes again. Jon’s fingers are so very close to that bowl of water. Towards danger and pain. He trusts Martin for some reason, though, trusts him to know what he’s doing. To not hurt him further. It’s a strange feeling.

“My mum is a lot of things,” Martin mysteriously replies. That’s the moment his hurt skin contacts the water, delicately. It still hurts like hell. It – It _burns_. Jon hisses, drawing back instinctively. Martin’s gentle but strong grip holds him in place, even when he struggles to get free.

“Ouch! It hurts!”

“I know.”

“Shit, it- it _burns_ \- it-it-it’s hot!“ It is hot. The water is scalding hot. Or cold? His nerves can’t differentiate anymore. Either one is painful.

“No, it’s not,” Martin replies, patient but also clearly a little annoyed. He just keeps holding on tighter, even when Jon tries to unhook his grip from his arm. He’s surprisingly strong. “ _Focus_ , idiot. You’re just panicking. The water’s at room temperature. Your skin is just expecting to feel pain, so it does.”

He’s… right. Now that he’s thinking about it with a clear head, no longer frantic. It might sting a bit, yes, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was before. The war is strangely soothing. “Oh.” He feels stupid all of a sudden. Freaking out over nothing. “… Right.”

Martin just gives him one of those smiles Jon doesn’t know what to do with and then releases his arm, but only to take the washcloth and hold it open for him. Now that his icy fingers are no longer burrowing into his sweater, he kind of misses the weight.

It’s clear what Martin wants him to do. He still hesitates. “Martin, I- I’m not sure if this is neces-“

He just cuts him off midsentence. “Umm. Did, did you know that I once dipped my finger into a deep fryer? Just the one.” He points the offending finger upwards just to demonstrate, all the while piercing Jon with a stare that is daring him to argue with him. Jon blinks and stares at it. There it is. Clear marks of an unwise decision. It’s only at the tip, but the skin there is glazed over like it’s been sealed. Must have been a long time ago.

Jon complies without argument and lets his hand make its way out of the water and into the palms of Martin’s. The simple feeling of cloth touching skin feels grating, like sandpaper, but it’s not nearly as bad as it used to be. His skin has also considerably perked up, no longer an angry red but a pacified brownish pink. “ _What_? Wh-why?”

“It was a dare. I was young and wanted to impress some friends. Heh. _Bad_ idea. I’m banned from a very prominent fast-food chain in a specific establishment for life now.” He shrugs. “I don’t like chips much anyways.”

Martin doesn’t touch him at all safe for those feather-light touches. Mostly he just stays like that, presumably letting the skin air dry? Jon’s not too sure what’s happening here. It feels delicate though. Like they’ve reached a threshold they haven’t passed ever before. Him and Martin. Jon’s not sure if he’s ever reached this with _anyone_ before. Not even Georgie. Not his grandmother, or maybe he’s doing her a disservice in remembering her so coldly. He’s sure she was doing her best with the mess at her hands that was his childhood. Anyway, this feels… momentous.

Martin gives him another one of those small smiles, though this time he’s looking downwards and at his hand. He doesn’t look disgusted at the different assortments of pink and white scar tissue, not at all. Jon’s never had anyone so closely look at his scars before, besides those very embarrassing two weeks he had to meet the nurse once a day. (Never even asked for her name. Of course.) It’s not as earth-shattering, not as scary, as he imagined it to be. It’s… just Martin. That’s all there is to it.

He suddenly feels incredibly guilty. “M-Martin,” he tries, swallowing thickly. “I … I have to apologize. I’ve always acted rather … crude in our, at work before. Around you. And I just wanted to say. I’m sorry for thinking you killed Gertrude.”

Martin just shrugs lightly and pats Jon’s still wet dry with feather-light touches. It still hurts, because his palm especially is still incredibly sensitive, but he lets it happen without comment. At this point, he’s pretty sure Martin could stab him in the palm, and he’d let him.

“You weren’t so bad.” Now it’s Jon’s turn to stare incredulously at him. Martin snorts to that but carries on patting him dry. “Hey, if I’d been in your position, I probably would have done the same. And yeah, you can be a bit… snotty at times, but …”

“ _Snotty_?”

“- I know it’s not, that it’s not. It’s not about me. It’s got nothing to do with me, hasn’t it?”

Jon swallows. He never thought Martin would find out _that_ particular detail about him. He never thought anyone would. Truth is … Truth is at this point it’s just force of habit. He knows he’s an annoying person, can be, so he just … barges in headfirst sometimes. With new acquaintances. And Martin especially had seemed so … _attentive_ the first time they’d met, like something in Jon’s expression had caught his interest. And that, in turn, had made him deeply nervous and uncomfortable, to the point where he deliberately sabotaged their social interactions. Because … just because. Jon doesn’t want to think about why.

_(Because you test them. To see if they can handle you at your worst.) (Most can’t.)_

Martin never stopped looking at him like _that_ , though. There had been a part of him that even when he’d been hunted by the police had believed 100% that if push came to shove, Martin wouldn’t rat him out. Martin would have granted him access to any archive intel he would have needed. Which had been _precisely_ why he hadn’t asked him. Maybe he just hadn’t wanted to meet him outside work. Maybe he hadn’t wanted him to get hurt. He couldn’t tell.

“… hurt?” Martin’s sudden gentle voice rips him out of his thoughts rather abruptly. His cheeks are pink.

He blinks. “Huh?”

“Uh, you’ve been staring at me for like ten minutes without saying anything. Not-“ Martin hastily adds, “Not that that’s weird, or bad! It’s fine, more than fine – I mean, I mean, it’s alright. It’s _cool_. Stare right ahead. Heh. But umm…”

“Oh, sorry, I – I must have dozed off.”

“I just wanted to ask you if I’d hurt you?”

“Umm, no? I don’t think so?” Jon furrows his brow and looks down at his hand. He hadn’t even noticed Martin putting away the washcloth and dabbing the lotion onto his palm. He hadn’t even noticed him opening the lotion cap. And his hand is shiny, so he must have been going at it for a while. Damn.

Martin breathes out a sigh of relief, apparently before having thought that the sudden silence meant that Jon had tried desperately to hold himself still from pain. “Oh, good,” he sighs and laughs sheepishly. “I was just … Well, I was just wondering- “

“Hmm?”

“Where it hurt –“

“ARR _RGHH_!”

Jon can feel much more than see Martin begin to press down on his fingertips. The pain flares up, not as severely as before, but bad all the same. Jon wants to pull away from his hand, but he dares not move. “ _Martin_ ,” he chokes out from in between his clenched teeth. “What. Are. You. _Doing_?!”

“Sorry! Just wondering where the damage truly lies. Hmmm, here?”

“RNRNNNNGG!”

“Interesting. I think you’ve got some nerve damage.”

_“You don’t say”_

“Yeah, right here. Do you still go to physical therapy?”

 _Still_? Jon hadn’t been aware that’s an open secret. So he might have been forced to go see a doctor twice a week after the Jane Prentiss attack, along with Tim. But he hadn’t wanted to make a big _fuss_ about it. And she’d soon declared them both healthy enough to return to work and daily life. Which had been a big fat lie, because sometimes Jon can still _feel_ the worms. The physical therapist had called it ‘just a mild case of PTSD’. He hadn’t been aware that _getting attacked by a flesh hive formerly known as a woman_ was just a _mild_ case. Just a regular day at the office, he supposes.

“Alright,” he sighs, now clearly annoyed. It feels like the moment from before has truly ended and now he’s back to earth. Or in his office. With way too many statements that need recording. “I think that’s alright for now.” So he softly frees himself from Martin’s grasp. It’s surprisingly easy.

Martin just looks a little disappointed but stands up nonetheless to take back his … nursing tools. “Are you sure?” he asks, all wide-eyed. “I could massage it if you wanted- “

Jon has to cough at the thought of sitting down at the couch with Martin and holding his hand while he massaged the palm of his. It’s … not a pleasant thought. Or at least not one he wants to do right now. If his hurried response is anything to go by. “It’s, that’s … nice, but no thank you. I must be getting back to work now. With the tapes.” He coughs again, just for good measure, and escorts Martin towards the door.

“Oh, alright, if that’s – that’s what you want? You sure? … Okay, then. I’ll leave you to it, then. Make myself some tea.”

“Thank you.”

Martin is already halfway to his own office when he throws out a “But I mean if you-“

“ _Goodbye_ , Martin.”

He barely hears his “bye” before Jon closes and locks his office door. With his left hand, mind. Baby steps.

He spends the next few minutes reassembling the mess on his desk, clearing away any dust or dirt that may have collected onto the statement from earlier. Not a drop of water anywhere. But when he sits down, ready to record the statement, he notices something: he’s sitting in someone else’s chair. Specifically, he’s sitting in _Martin’s_ chair. And it’s still warm as if his presence had made an impact. There’s a stray hair lying on the armchair of it, one Jon harrowingly avoids not to push off. It even smells slightly different now, though he can’t place the smell necessarily.

Jon leaves it as it is and decides then and there that there’s no point in switching chairs _now_ , now that he’s settled. It’s a comfortable chair. And besides, there’s no harm in switching up his work routine from time to time. Might do him some good.

So he clears his throat again, and then starts over: “Statement of …”

* * *

A few days after that particular incident, it happens again. Well, _it_ so much as at first, he was alright. Fine, even. Ready to go home after a long day of working for an evil old man that had tried to frame him for murder. What’s new. And now he’s in excruciating pain.

_Oh. Oh no._

It happens so fast he barely has time to react. His hand is fine, better than before even. He can open doors again, albeit gingerly and with careful consideration. It’s annoying, yes, it’s even time-consuming. But it’s better than what it could be. So Jon feels grateful.

But sometimes the calm before the storm can be dangerous. You grow used to it. Make mistakes. He guesses that’s why he’s now currently curled up into himself on the floor, clutching his hand in pain. He’d tried opening the door with a little too much enthusiasm and something had just snapped. Or been drawn taut. It feels like he pinched a vein, but worse. The pain feels like lightning climbing up his body. Like he’s bleeding internally.

He knows he’s being dramatic, but he also knows that no one should be in the office anymore at this hour. Which is why he grants himself one small reprieve. He allows himself to use profanity, just this once.

“FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKKKKK”

“FUCK FUCK SHIT FUCK MOTHER _FUCKER_ THAT HURTS!”

It helps barely, but still. Elias isn’t here to look scandalized, so he’s allowed a cuss word or two. Especially when his _veins_ are on _fire_.

Desperately he searches inside his bag, looking for anything, anything at all to help ease the pain. There’s nothing except a 20% off coupon from Weatherspoons. Of course. He doesn’t even have a bottle of water, for Christ’s sake. His planning ahead has always only entailed planning ahead for the next hour or so.

Through the charring of his gritted teeth, he almost doesn’t hear it when his phone vibrates. An incoming phone call. Jon almost catches himself cursing again in relief but furrows his brow when he manages to fish out his phone out of his jean pocket with shaky fingers only to realize that it’s. Not Georgie calling him. Or… the police. Or one of his long-lost friends wanting to reconnect. No, it’s none of that. Instead, it’s just a simple last name.

_BLACKWOOD CALLING_

He hadn’t even bothered to save his first name. Well, that’s embarrassing. And strangely poetic, because his hand is pulsing rhythmically as if it _knows_ that Martin can help. He just about manages to answer the call and keep the device glued to his ear. His entire body is shaking. “Martin,” he grits out, both a plea and annoyance.

“Hey,” is the shaky reply on the other line. “Did you hear that? I think our building might be haunted or something. By … by an entity with strong language. Heard it all the way from my office, umm …”

“Martin …” It’s hard to form sentences right now, but still he soldiers on.

“Yes?”

“That was me,” comes out as barely anything but a shaky breath. At first, he thought the pain had just been a pinched vein, but now? Now that he’s had the opportunity to really _feel_ it, have a taste test, he’s decided it’s something else. Because the pain increases, stretching from his hand up his arm and into his chest. “I was the … I cussed.”

“Oh,” the confusion is clear from the end of the line. “Oh. I … I mean, I guess, I guess you can. It’s a free country. But why?”

“Because,” he breathes out painfully, hunching over himself in pain. “I’m in pain. Right now.”

“You’re _hurt_? Where? When? What happened? Did someone- did some _thing_ attack the Institute?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that, I –“ It feels embarrassing to say. He almost wants to pretend nothing’s wrong. But then another wave of nausea hits him, which is new, most likely from him clenching his stomach so hard it must hurt. “I just – Martin …” God, this is mortifying.

“What’s wrong, Jon?” There he goes with that concern of his again. Jon can practically see him jump up from his chair.

“Can you come to the main entrance, please?”

“Right on. Wait a second, oh-“ There’s the sound of something moving, as well as something solid hitting the ground. Martin is panting. It sounds … different than what Jon’s used to. “Damn it, okay, okay, okay, okay”

“Martin, just come – come here.” He’s panting as well for some reason. Huh. “just need someone to, to help me stand up and walk back to my office.”

There’s no reply and for a small, excruciating moment Jon is afraid he was just kidding. Just making fun. And now he’d hung up. The worst thing is he wouldn’t even be mad if he had. God knows Martin has been there for him a surprising amount of time these last few days. It must become boresome.

But it’s only for a moment until his vision focuses on something solid in front of him and he can feel himself being lifted off the ground gently. He just now realizes he’d been crying, the tears just flowing out of his eyes without his knowledge. How distressing.

It’s a little while during their walk when Jon is finally coherent enough to realize he’s being talked to.

“Alright now, I’ve got you. Don’t, don’t worry, it’s all going to be fine. I’ll fix you right up and you, you can go back to cussing out the Institute no problem. Hold on, let’s make a left here and then we- You’re doing so good!”

“Martin, please shut up,” he wheezes. He’s not a baby.

“Sorry.” Martin just laughs nervously as he hoists him over the threshold of his own office. It feels a little … intrusive. Jon can’t say that he’s in here a lot. Come to think of it … he hasn’t been in here at all. Not once. All the times he and Martin had a chat, it had either been in Jon’s own office or in the hallway. Or the conference hall. Or the toilet. Or just, anything but here.

“Hmm, seems part psychosomatic almost,” Martin muses on, clearly talking to himself. Jon has to strain his ears to hear him.

“Psy-… somatic … What?”

“Nothing.”

If he hadn’t been currently in torturous pain, Jon would have made a run for it most likely. As it is he can just watch, and help of course, position himself and then Martin as well on the small leather couch. Since when did the offices contain any couches?

“Didn’t … know you, you put a couch in here?” He wheezes conversationally as Martin expertly takes the offending hand in his and starts squeezing. Massaging. It hurts, it hurts like hell, but it also feels weirdly serene. Sitting here on this sofa that’s just a little too small for a lot of company but seems to fit them just fine. They’re both sitting so close, Martin sitting cross legged, he almost can’t tell how many parts of his clothes and skin are touching Martin’s. It’s a little overwhelming. Skin contact is overwhelming when he’s in pain.

There’s still a weird ringing sound in his ear and his hand still _burns_ with a passion, but it’s slowly starting to weaken with every roll of Martin’s digits and knuckles. Martin almost looks embarrassed, which is funny considering _Jon_ should be the mortified one.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, still kneading Jon’s hand. “I don’t … sleep all that well anymore. Insomnia. And sometimes during my lunch break, when you’re still working and Tim and Melanie are off in a bar somewhere, I like to … close my door and take a nap?” It almost sounds like he’s trying to justify himself. Like he’s doing something _wrong_ , sleeping in the office. Jon has slept, or rather passed out, in the office many times, but never near anything that didn’t leave his neck stiff when he woke up. Usually his desk. Jon smiles, which is probably not a sight for sore eyes considering he probably has a track mark of tears running down his cheeks. “Just for a little while, and only during my break.”

“Nightmares?” Jon asks because for some reason he’d just always assumed Martin’s immunity to all of this remained intact. To all the horror. It feels sobering to be proven wrong.

Martin does another one of his half shrugs. “Working in a place like this? How couldn’t I? Heh, I’d be concerned if I _could_ sleep soundly every night. But … no, not just that. I just, I never slept particularly well. Since childhood.” He starts laughing incredulously, holding Jon’s hand in his and by now only gently pressing. Neither of them noticed. “Wow.”

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just …” Martin laugh-coughs and almost looks a little scared, staring down somewhere around Jon’s chest. Boring holes through him. “I’ve never told that to anybody before. Not even my … my mum. You know, I’ve always … I’ve always slept alone, so it’s never really come up with anybody.”

Jon can hear the underlining _‘I’ve always been alone’_ clear as bells, unsure as to how to proceed. His hand is by now only aching in its familiar way, still painful, but not teeth clenching bad. Ignorable.

“Martin, I –“ He starts, then stops himself. What should he say? That’s he’s sorry? The same way Martin feels sorry for his hand? What good does that do? But still, there ought to be something said. To fill the silence.

“Martin, I’m. I’m so-“

“Hey, Martin, you still here? Was that you, from earlier? I think we have a bad-mouthed ghost …” Tim just so chooses to use that exact moment to make his entrance, oblivious to the tender moment going on. He looks at Jon’s ashen face, then at Martin’s alarmed one, before his eyes slowly, ever so slowly, travel towards their conjoined hands. The way they’re spread out on the sofa. Then back on their faces. The whole moment takes less than a minute, but to the three of them it feels like entire hours have passed. “… Problem,” Tim finishes his drawn-out sentence.

He smirks. That’s never a good sign, so Jon uses that opportunity to leap up off the couch and distance himself from the awkward moment that they all just had to be witness to. He hopes that if he can move away slowly, maybe Tim won’t notice his cry swollen face. His hand and shoulder still hurt like hell. (And thinking of it, that could also be coming from his Prentiss scars. Hmm.)

Jon desperately searches for the appropriate words to say, begins with “Tim, I was just –“ just as Tim’s voice pierces the silence with a little too loud “What you _fellas_ up to?”

“We were –“

“Nothing.”

Jon isn’t sure who said what. Both of them seem equally mortified to have given their co-worker this ammunition. Martin swallows nervously, exchanges looks with Jon in the corner and then looks back at the intruder.

“Now, listen,”

“Timothy, I was just about to leave.”

Tim holds his hands up in mock surrender and slowly makes his retreat. “No, no, my bad. Evidently, the cussing wasn’t from a ghost or nothing. Just, you know. Guy talk. I get it. Jep. Totally. So, _Jonathan,_ you can sit back down if you want to.” His smirk can’t be described as anything but ‘shit-eating’. No matter how miserably, Timothy Stoker is always one for workplace gossip. “I’ll let you fellas do your thing. Things. Plural. Whatever you want to do. I’m heading out. Bye!”

And just like that, he’s gone. Leaving Martin and Jon dumbfounded, staring at the empty space he used to inhabit. From far away, both of them can hear Tim’s low whistle as he leaves through the main entrance.

“He’s,” Martin starts, looking at Jon almost apologetically. As if this is his fault. “He’s never going to live this down.”

His hand is pulsing as if in apology for this apparent mess. “Shit.”

* * *

He arrives to work the next day with a package at his desk. Tim still gives him weird winks in the hallway, as well as inappropriate hand signs. He tries to ignore it as best as he can.

A package or rather, a small shopping bag from a pharmacy in Camden. A woman is giving him a thumbs up on the plastic bag. Unnerving.

Inside: Ibuprofen, a whole load of it, as well as a cap of something advertising to be a _“DERMA Advanced Scar Gel”_. _‘scar reduction cream’. ‘For smoother, healthier skin’. ‘100% effective, 20% off’._ And a pack of _‘Diclofenac Anti-inflammatory cream’._

There’s a note attached to it. The words on there are slightly curved but still way more readable than Jon’s own almost illegible scrawl. _‘In case you need it. – M’_ Receiving a note feels like new territory.

Jon scoffs at the ingredients in the so-called _wonder cream_ , pure face of disbelief, but he does decide to store it in his work bag – just in case. He does change his contact name to ‘Martin Blackwood’. It feels only appropriate.

Martin’s office also has a surprise of its own: A memory foam adjacent pillow and blanket set. Just small enough to fit, or to hide. No note this time.


End file.
